


In the Red

by enigmaticblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha has a lot of blood on her hands, but she hates the feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Red

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt "blood loss"

Natasha works her way through the glittering crowd in the large hotel ballroom, feeling the weight of the diamonds and sapphires around her neck, and the cool air on her bare back. She’s undercover as Natalya Serov, a gun for hire, working her way up through the ranks in Berlin.

 

She pauses to greet a prominent German artist who knows her only as Natalya, kissing her on each cheek. “Natalya, you look beautiful,” she says in German. “What a dress!”

 

Natasha glances down at the blue silk hugging her figure. “This? It was a gift.”

 

“Such a gift,” the woman titters. “He must be a very lucky man.”

 

“He thinks so,” Natasha replies with a sly smile. “Enjoy your evening.”

 

“She’s right about one thing, you are looking good,” Clint says in her ear.

 

Natasha is too much of a professional to respond, but she permits herself a purely internal smile. She and Clint don’t get the same assignment often, but it’s always a pleasure to have him watching her back.

 

She has to admit that being part of the Avengers has been worth it, if only because she gets to work with Clint more often these days.

 

“How long do you think this is going to take?” Clint asks. “Because we have yet to partake in the local brew, and it would be a crime to visit Germany without drinking any of the beer.”

 

Natasha ignores him, as Clint probably means for her to do. Her job is to get close to their mark, clone his phone, plant a bug, and then get out without anyone being the wiser.

 

She doesn’t usually have backup for something like this, but their mark—Vasili Brokhov—is extremely dangerous and very well connected, and in Fury’s words, SHIELD wants to be sure they retain one of their most important assets.

 

Normally, Clint would probably be bored to tears when he doesn’t have a target, but Natasha suspects he’s enjoying the show.

 

She spots Brokhov and smiles warmly. “Mr. Brokhov, it’s a pleasure,” she says in Russian.

 

Brokhov is a tall, thickset man with a nose that looks as though it’s been broken multiple times, and a scar running down the right side of his face, near his ear. He opens his arms with a broad smile. “Natalya! I hear great things about you.”

 

“I have been hard at work,” she says, deftly picking his pocket as he embraces her, retrieving his phone and dropping it into her clutch. Her phone will automatically establish a signal, and the bug—paper thin, and clear—will adhere to the back. It’s a Stark-Banner invention, and it’s already saved lives and gathered important intel.

 

Not that she’s going to say as much to Stark—although she might mention it to Bruce.

 

“It is a pleasure to have such a beautiful woman in our service,” Brokhov replies, his hand sliding down to cup her ass.

 

Clint snorts. “Oh, that’s _so_ obvious.”

 

Natasha smiles at Brokhov, but really, it’s Clint’s comment that makes the expression genuine. She takes a step back, smoothly eluding his questing hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” she says. “I hope to see more of you in the future.”

 

Brohov leers. “I would be happy for you to see _more_ of me.”

 

Natasha smiles mysteriously and pats him on the arm, distracting him from the fact that she’s slipping his phone back in his pocket. “We should speak again soon, somewhere it is not so crowded.”

 

“I will be happy to,” Brokhov replies.

 

Natasha takes her leave, slipping back through the crowd. She can’t leave just yet, needing to be seen hobnobbing to solidify her cover.

 

She’s chatting amiably with another guest, an enforcer with the local mafia, when she hears Clint curse. “Tasha, there’s someone here. I’m blown. Get out as soon as you can.”

 

Natasha maintains her pleasant smile and finishes her conversation as gracefully as possible, excusing herself to go to the ladies’ room. She freshens her lipstick, and then she retrieves the bag she’d checked. In a matter of seconds, Natasha is in a deserted office, and she changes into street clothes, the better to blend in with the locals.

 

She goes out through the window, her dress and jewels tucked away to be retrieved by a SHIELD agent later. “Barton,” Natasha says as she leaves the hotel behind. “Where are you?”

 

“I might be a little late making it to the extraction point,” Clint says, his voice faint. “You should go on without me.”

 

“Where are you?” she repeats.

 

Clint grunts. “Building across the street, top floor.”

 

It’s not hard to figure out from there, since Clint would have stationed himself where he could look down into the ballroom windows with a clear line of sight. The old office building makes a perfect lookout spot, since it’s not currently in use.

 

Natasha takes the stairs two at a time, keeping an ear out for any activity, knowing that whoever had been sent after Clint would be good, better than the typical professional contract killer.

 

She finds Clint in an empty room, along with three dead bodies. Clint is slumped against the wall under the window, a tourniquet wrapped around his left leg.

 

“Hi,” he says, giving her the approximation of a jaunty wave. “Something unexpected came up.”

 

Natasha shakes her head. “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

 

“I manage most of the time,” Clint protests weakly. Natasha takes in his pale, sweaty face, and the blood staining the carpet around his injured leg, soaking the black fabric of his pants.

 

Natasha kneels next to him and checks the field bandage, finding that it’s already soaked through with blood. “This is bad,” she murmurs, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

 

“I don’t think the bullet hit an artery,” Clint replies, rubbing at the drying streak of blood on one cheek. “But I don’t think I’m going to be walking anywhere. You should get out before they send more men.”

 

Natasha glares at him. “We’ll leave together or not at all. Have you called to request another extraction point?”

 

Clint’s expression confirms that he hasn’t, even before he says, “No, because you were supposed to get out. I would have made other arrangements.”

 

“The blood loss is making you stupid,” Natasha replies, unzipping his vest and stripping it off him with minimal help from Clint. “We need to get to safety, and then we’ll call for another team.”

 

“I’m not leaving my bow,” Clint protests.

 

Natasha barely refrains from rolling her eyes, knowing how much Clint loves his weapon. “Fine,” she says, breaking down the bow and fitting it and Clint’s quiver into a backpack that looks like one a traveler might use. She puts it on and tightens the straps before hauling Clint to his feet.

 

He leans on her heavily. “Okay?” she asks.

 

“Not even remotely,” Clint admits.

 

“We have to get out of this building,” Natasha replies. “So, you’ll just have to manage.”

 

Clint lets out a little laugh. “Mind over matter doesn’t really work when you’re talking about blood loss or bullet wounds.”

 

“Since we’ll both die if we don’t get out of here, you don’t have a choice,” Natasha replies grimly.

 

They make it down the stairs slowly, with Clint leaning heavily as he hops down, growing progressively paler and sweatier. “Tasha, I don’t think this is going to work.”

 

“It’s going to work,” she replies fiercely. “Or I will kill you myself.”

 

They can’t go far. Natasha gets them out of the building and half-drags Clint down the alley, looking for the first door that gives them a chance of escape. She finds it in the backdoor of a club that’s locked from the inside. The pulsing bass rattles the door, providing exactly the cover she needs.

 

Natasha props Clint against the wall and pulls out a small explosive charge, pressing it onto the door right over the lock. Ten seconds later, the charge blows, and Natasha takes Clint’s weight again. She finds the women’s bathroom and gets them both inside, bolting the door behind them.

 

“That’s going to last as long as someone needs to use the bathroom,” Clint observes, his voice faint.

 

“They can wait,” Natasha replies. The bathroom door muffles the music enough for Natasha to make a call.

 

“Status?” Sitwell says.

 

“Mission accomplished, but Agent Barton has been injured,” Natasha replies. “We’re at the bar across the street from the hotel. We need extraction.”

 

There’s a pause, and Sitwell says, “We can pick you up in fifteen minutes, but not at your location. How far can Barton go?”

 

Natasha looks at Clint with an assessing eye, familiar with his strengths and weaknesses. “Two blocks, max.”

 

“There’s an office building two blocks to the north from your current location,” Sitwell replies. “There will be a van outside by the time you get there.”

 

Normally, it would take them a minute or two to cross the distance, but right now, Natasha thinks that fifteen minutes is generous. “We’ll be there,” she replies grimly. She hangs up just as someone begins pounding on the door.

 

“Hey! How long is it going to take?” a woman shouts in German.

 

“One minute!” Natasha shouts back in the same language. She looks at Clint. “Can you manage?”

 

Clint shrugs. “I guess I’ll have to, won’t I?”

 

“If you lean on me, it will look like you’re drunk,” Natasha says. She runs the tap and washes the blood off Clint’s face.

 

It’s an imperfect disguise, considering that Clint’s in black cargo pants and a black t-shirt; she hopes that any passers-by think it’s a fashion statement of some sort.

 

Clint nods, his lips tilting upward in a rueful smile. “Promise me that you’ll leave me behind if you have to.”

 

“I try not to make promises I can’t keep,” Natasha replies. “Let’s go.”

 

She unlocks the door and shoves it outward forcefully, hoping that it will push aside anybody lingering outside. Natasha hauls Clint out, hearing a rather nasty comment about her sexual proclivities as she pushes out the backdoor.

 

“That was rude,” Clint murmurs.

 

“Good to know your German is still good,” Natasha replies.

 

“Well, I did spend a couple of years here,” Clint says, putting even more weight on her shoulders. “And it’s a travesty that we’re not going to be able to stop for a beer.”

 

“You never know,” Natasha replies. “You’ll probably be at Ramstein for a couple of days at the least.”

 

Clint sighs. “And they won’t let me have a beer while I’m on painkillers.”

 

“I think I can get around that restriction,” Natasha says.

 

They limp slowly along, Clint trying to stifle his grunts of pain, and Natasha doesn’t think they’re going to make it. Blood loss and pain have made Clint weak, and he moves more and more slowly.

 

“Come on, just a little farther,” Natasha urges.

 

“Still think you should leave me,” he replies between gritted teeth.

 

Natasha snarls. “I still think you’re an idiot.”

 

“That makes two of us,” Clint says.

 

“A little farther.”

 

“Tasha—”

 

She clutches him tighter and drags him along. “Shut up. Save your strength.”

 

Clint does as ordered, which tells her just how bad he’s hurt; Clint _never_ shuts up when she tells him to.

 

She starts and reaches for a weapon when a van pulls up next to them, but a SHIELD agent she knows pokes his head out of the window and asks in flawless German, “Hey, Natasha. Need a lift?”

 

“I’d like to get my friend here to a bed,” she replies in the same language. “He’s had a little too much to drink.”

 

“Climb in,” he invites.

 

Natasha drags Clint into the back of the van, and as soon as she lays him down, he passes out. She’s impressed he’s lasted this long, actually—not that she’ll tell him that.

 

There are another two agents in the back of the van, and they start working on Clint, leaving Natasha to slump against the side of the van, out of the way.

 

“He’s crashing,” one of them says. “He’s lost too much blood! Get a move on, Lambert!”

 

The van speeds up, and Natasha feels every bump as they race along narrow streets. “Start an IV,” another agent says. “Watch him.”

 

Natasha closes her eyes, the rest of their words meaningless as they call out instructions as to what medicine to administer and how much, and she wills Clint to be okay.

 

~~~~~

 

Clint stirs slowly, pulling Natasha out of her reverie. “Not the hospital again,” he groans.

 

“Stop whining,” Natasha orders, leaning forward in the padded chair that some kind soul had found for her. “It’s better than the alternative.”

 

“I’ll give you that,” Clint replies, rolling his head to look at her, his face nearly as pale as the white hospital sheets. “You’re still here.”

 

Natasha shrugs. “So are you.”

 

“In my defense, I’ve been unconscious,” Clint replies. “How long?”

 

“Two days.” She holds out a glass of water with a straw, letting him sip slowly. “Long enough to make me think you’re being lazy.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes. “Not all of us can have your constitution, Tasha.”

 

“I don’t see why,” she replies, but she smiles as she reaches out to take Clint’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Like I got shot,” he says. “How’s the intel?”

 

“Coming in,” she replies. “Other than you getting shot, it was a good mission.”

 

Clint rubs his eyes with his free hand. “How bad, and how long am I staying?”

 

“The bullet went through your leg without hitting the bone or an artery, and you’ll be here for two more days at least,” Natasha replies. “I’ve already told Fury that I’m staying. We’ll debrief together.”

 

“You have better things to do,” he protests.

 

Natasha fixes him with a glare. “Not right now, I don’t.”

 

Clint smiles then. “Do you have a deck of cards?”

 

She does, but only because she knows that’s how Clint likes to stave off boredom. She hands it to him. “You shuffle first.”

 

“Better not,” he says, holding out the deck. “You know how loopy the pain meds make me. I’ll probably send them all over the room, and then you’ll have to pick them up.”

 

Since it’s happened before, Natasha can’t help but agree. “Of course.”

 

“Hey,” he says, as she uses the bedside table to shuffle the deck. “Thanks for sticking around.”

 

She smiles—the real smile so few get to see. “Of course,” she repeats, and then because she can, and because he’s alive, she stands and presses a kiss to his forehead.

 

And then she rests her head against his, blocking out the smell of antiseptic and sweat, focusing on Clint.

 

She still has red in her ledger, and he’s a big part of why she has any hope of making it up. Natasha still owes him, and this is a very small part of paying that debt—even if she can honestly say there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.


End file.
